


An Early Light

by Himring



Series: Gloom, Doom and Maedhros [5]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Seasonal, Spring, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 05:54:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Himring/pseuds/Himring
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maedhros experiences the late arrival of early spring in Lothlann, in the period just after the foundation of Himring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Early Light

Spring has finally come to the plain of Lothlann. Winter was long and hard, but now most of the snow has melted, except for the occasional patch that endures in shaded hollows, its surface encrusted with ice and rimmed with dirt. The nights are still cold, so cold—but, when the sun comes up, the plain is bathed in a cool brilliant light and the blades and stalks of last year’s withered grass gleam a pale yellow.

And in the middle of it all is Maedhros, running.

The earth is soggy with snow melt. Everywhere there are puddles. In places, they converge into little streams and small ponds. In this season, much of the plain of Lothlann is marshy ground.

And in the middle of it all is Maedhros, running.

Winter was long and hard. What little there remained of wildlife on the plain of Lothlann struggled to survive; many small beings died of hunger and frost. Now they emerge cautiously into the light from their burrows and lairs. The very first migrants from the South return.

The new arrivals on their high hill, too, suffered this winter, cooped up in their half-built fortress. Conditions were harsher than expected. Stocks intended to last for the whole of the cold season ran low. To them, also, the first signs of thaw were a sign of renewed hope and a great relief.

Maedhros leaps a brook. His legs are already splashed with thin black mud almost up to his thighs. His hair has come undone, as it always does, and whips around him in a wild tangle, as he swerves to avoid a rabbit burrow. He goes straight on running.

It is spring in northeast Beleriand—it is still early in the First Age of the World—and in the middle of it all is Maedhros, running.


End file.
